


diptych

by sunarists



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Art, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Flashbacks, Guns, Heist, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painting, Strangers to Lovers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:15:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24320416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunarists/pseuds/sunarists
Summary: You're not really an art collector." Bellamy bites down on Murphy's bottom lip. It draws blood, and Bellamy can taste the salty iron in the other man's mouth."And you're not really law enforcement." Murphy tugs at the curls behind Bellamy's head, jerking his head back. His hand brushes the knife in Bellamy's belt, but he pays no mind, seeming more amused than threatened. "Who the hell are you?"Bellamy laughs into his mouth, his body vibrating with humour. "I'll figure you out first."-alternatively, murphy makes his money stealing art. bellamy makes his money trying to assassinate him.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/John Murphy, Gaia/Clarke Griffin, Octavia Blake/Raven Reyes
Comments: 16
Kudos: 31





	1. urbino

**Author's Note:**

> hi! 
> 
> warnings for this story: it is crime, there are guns, shooting and mentions of blood. it's about the same level of graphic violence as canon. there are mentions of alcohol and marijuana use. there is implied (consensual) sexual content
> 
> chapters are being written as the story continues- as of the publication date of this first chapter, i have one more prewritten
> 
> i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the diptych of federico da montefeltro and battista sforza is a diptych, oil on wood. it is the work of piero della francesca, dated to about 1465 to 1472. the profiles of battista and ferderico are separated by their canvases, the proud owners of their vast land._

Purple. 

The alleyway is washed with it- the grimy walls, the dingy signs and the suspicious looking puddle of water only inches away from Bellamy's leather boot. He throws his smoked cigarette into it, the already-dying embers going cold in an instant. Down the alley, the main street bustles, glowing boards lighting the nightlife, chatter from the strangers walking along wafting towards Bellamy.

The violet neon lights are stupidly bright- Bellamy squints, scowling as he hears the bass from inside the club vibrating the walls. He's waiting for the burner phone in his back pocket to start ringing- any second now, Clarke's nothing if not punctual. 

_Bzzt! Bzzt!_

"You got something for me?" Bellamy mutters into the tiny disposable phone, lodged between his ear and his shoulder, scrabbling his pockets for a lighter before flicking his pack open. 

"You're gonna hate it." Clarke's tinny voice is amused- he can hear it, even through the shitty connection. 

"I hate them all." Bellamy mouths around the cigarette, the first puff of smoke floating up, up, up, lavender in the light. "Try me."

Clarke chuckles- she's happy, kind, so unlike the business she divulged in.

It was an act. Bellamy had seen her pull a trigger before- there was no happiness or kindness behind it. There was no room for heart, here.

"Hate them more than you hate John Murphy?" She sing-songs. 

The cigarette falls to the floor next to its pathetic stub of a brother, the puddle swallowing up the smoke easily. 

* * *

John Murphy and Bellamy Blake go back. 

_Way_ back. 

* * *

"Expensive job." Miller whistles at the file Clarke had sent Bellamy. It's as meticulous as it can get, for Murphy, who's got a crony that wipes his identity whenever he sees fit. The headshot in the file is black and white, a photo that's got to be a few years old, his face sporting a black eye and a bloody nose. He still bares his teeth in a half-attempt to smile- it's cocky, confident and _proud._

It infuriates Bellamy. 

"I don't care how much he costs, Miller." Bellamy mutters, swinging his legs up onto the mahogany desk, propping his shoes on top of one another. "I care about the fact that he stole my sister." 

"I don't know how many times we can tell you this, Blake." Miller snorts, pouring scotch delicately from a crystal case into two glasses. "Octavia chose to work for him- if anything, it was her hacker girlfriend that stole her. You're not her keeper."

Bellamy thinks he might've given Miller that crystal. He regrets it sourly, as he listens to his colleague talk. 

"It's dangerous." Bellamy hisses, snatching the glass of scotch out of Miller's hand with as much anger as he can muster- it's not much, and a few amber drops spill out, splattering onto the ceramic floor. Miller rolls his eyes at Bellamy's theatrics.. 

" _Your_ job is dangerous." He says pointedly. The gun in Bellamy's lapels feels warm against his chest. He frowns. 

"Not the same thing. _My_ job is to kill _her_ job- by killing _them._ " 

Miller looks to the ceiling, frustrated. "Have a little trust in her, Blake. She's tough." 

Bellamy sips at the scotch, the liquid warm and sticky going down his throat. 

"Doesn't matter." He glares at the crystal. 

Bellamy shouldn't waste money on gifts for friends. They all disagree with him anyways. 

"I'm going to put a bullet in John Murphy's head anyways." 

* * *

_Bellamy taps his cigarette with one idle finger, watching absently as the ashes float to the ground. He's on the balcony of some schmoozy CEO's building- there's a party, going on inside. Octavia's in there, with her new friend who works in, quote, "computers and stuff." She'd forced him to come, not risking going to a party alone, and now Bellamy is by himself again._

_He runs a hand through his hair, his fingers getting tangled in the curls so easily. His pants and shirt are pressed, clean- he'd disposed of his last outfit, blood spattered all over the white shirt and silk tie. Bellamy frowns at the memory of the messy job, only hours earlier._

_He'd liked that shirt._

_"Smoking'll kill you, you know."_

_A new, smooth voice behind him. Bellamy turns, his hand twitching towards the inside of the jacket, before he's met with a regular man. Only- he's not so regular at all._

_"I sure hope so." Bellamy says tritely. He means to come off ruder, but his voice falters, as he looks the stranger up and down. Blue eyes circled in dark, black liner. Brown hair falling over his forehead in an artfully styled fringe. Strong features, sharp angles. His black pants and shirt fit him snugly, his sleeves rolled up to reveal tattooed forearms- it's too dark, to make out the inky swirls, but Bellamy's mesmerised by them either way. His fingers, adorned with chunky, silver rings, are painted- red._

_"I'm Murphy." The now-not-stranger smirks. He pulls out a pack Marlboro Reds- the twin of the pack Bellamy's got in his pocket, the same brand he'd stayed loyal to since he was sixteen. "Got a light?"_

* * *

Murphy flicks his hand at the client, feigning boredom. They eagerly unveil the canvas- "Madonna of the Fireplace," Murphy knows the piece is called. 

He frowns at it. This Madonna is quite ugly- he much prefers the modern Madonna and her silly pop music. 

_Art connoisseurs,_ he sniffs. Such posers. Spending millions on little strips of oil paint and faded colours. So easily copied.

Not enough bang for your buck, and Murphy is a _businessman_. 

He drowns out the men describing the piece to him, his eyes instead glancing over the three security guards at the door. Big, lumbering idiots, their hands strictly at their fronts, guns hanging at their sides. 

Murphy sighs as the men yammer on about _Jan Gossaert_ and _renaissance_ and _one of a kind-_ oh, how he _sorely_ wants some action. He waits for the signal, though, because he came up with the plan, and he wasn't about to ruin it because he was _bored._

 _'Temptation is a devil',_ he thinks sourly, stifling a yawn. He checks his watch- it looks much better on him than the business man he grave-robbed only a few weeks prior, the genuine leather strap pairing nicely with his black nail polish. 

Is it grave-robbing if you stole it before you killed him? Murphy thinks about it idly as he's eyeing the painting hungrily, up, then down. 

"Madonna of the Fireplace" is ugly, maybe, but she's worth millions, _millions_ more than these fakers even know. He salivates just thinking about it. 

" _Cameras down in three... two.... blast off."_ Raven's thin voice rattles through his earpiece. Murphy studies the positioning of the painting in regards to the men standing next to it. How does he shoot them without getting brain matter on the painting? 

A security man falls without fanfare, a gunshot singing through the room- then the next- the third's only reaching towards his belt when he crumplesr, his eyes going glossy and his blood pooling on the floor, flooding into the same puddles as his friends until the floor is an ocean of _red_. Octavia points the gun at the handlers who turn away from the art. They cower as she approaches him slowly. 

Murphy _loves_ watching Octavia in action- his most recent addition to his team, and easily the most interesting. 

Her connection to Bellamy Blake- well, it's her only setback, but Murphy's all for second chances.

Murphy shakes his head, reaching into his jacket and toting two pistols, glinting dangerously under the fluorescent lights of the office. He shoots once, then twice, and the men collapse, writhing in agony as their legs bleed out, staining the floor red. He drops his feet from the desk, stomping across the cold floor with big combat boots with large silver buckles and finishes them off- their screams go silent, but the echo bounces around the room. 

"It's hideous." Octavia grimaces at the painting, unhooking it. "Jasper's gonna have a field day with it." 

Murphy slips the guns back into his jackets, stepping over the bodies, careful not to get blood on his shiny shoes. 

"Get Raven to call the cleanup team." He looks back, giving the room one final glance, looking at the crumpled figures uninterestedly. "Tell 'em they've got less than an hour. And that it's messy." 

* * *

_"So,_ Murphy _-" The dark-haired smoker flicks the lighter, the end of the cigarette catching. Murphy inhales, letting the thick smoke settle in his lungs before exhaling again. "- why aren't you with the rest of the party?"_

_"Because it's boring, stranger." Murphy sighs, glaring back at the party. Boring it was- boring music, boring conversation, minimal dancing, minimal fun. Murphy's not into it. Raven had dragged him along to show him her crush of the week._

_"Bellamy." He corrects, a faint smile playing at his lips. "Name's Bellamy."_

_"Well,_ Bellamy," _Murphy likes the way his name rolls off his tongue. Melodic. Soft. Not at all like the man he was looking at, all sharp edges and broken corners "Why aren't_ you _with the rest of the party?"_

_Bellamy shrugs, his curls bouncing with the movement. "Not my scene."_

_Murphy peers at him curiously. It was clear to him from the get-go; this Bellamy is a mystery. Him, all tall, dark and handsome, quietly smoking in the corner and paying no mind to the crowd, expensive looking leather shoes stamping at cigarette stub after cigarette stub._

_"What, you don't own a multi-million dollar corporation?" Murphy teases. Bellamy's eyebrows flick up- quickly, blink and you'd miss it._

_Murphy never misses._

_"No, no- my work is a little more-" He looks at the party, meters and meters away, a large patio between them, uninterestedly, his mouth downturning in a grimace. "- subtle."_

_The plot thickens. Murphy listens, with anticipation- what could he do? Who is Bellamy?_

_"What do you do?" Bellamy asks him instead. Murphy plucks the cigarette out of his own mouth, clipping it against the rail of the balcony._

_"What do_ you _do?" Murphy retorts, tapping his foot insistently. Bellamy chuckles, pausing._

_"Law enforcement." He says after a beat, his eyes filled with mirth that Murphy doesn't quite understand._

_"Art collector." Murphy smiles like it's an inside joke. Bellamy would never get it, of course, but he quirks his mouth in return. Murphy notes the dimples, the crows feet at his eyes._

_"Sounds fun." Bellamy's face blurs in a cloud of greying smoke, his freckled face illuminated by the lights shining through it. "Tell me more."_

* * *

"I want in on this." 

Bellamy looks at Clarke, surprised. They sit- rather slump- on the leather couch in her penthouse- her heels are off, his collar is unbuttoned, and they're drinking wine from the bottle. The apartment has high ceilings, and the room is illuminated by an expensive looking chandelier. The TV, playing an old teen drama, is muted, the high school love-triangles and football games long forgotten. Bellamy's socked feet are flat on the Persian rug- so soft. Clarke has her legs propped up on the polished coffee table, two coasters and two glasses sitting there, untouched. 

"The Murphy job?" He asks, watching as she tips her head back, letting the wine stream down her throat. She wipes her mouth ungracefully, nodding before passing the bottle back to him. "Why?" 

Clarke shrugs. "This one seems fun. Like the old days, right?" 

The old days- the days where both Clarke and Bellamy worked the field together, an unstoppable and deadly duo, the best record in the company. Now, Clarke is his handler- she who sent him files, who hooked him up with his firearms, who quietly transferred the large sums of money into his bank account. 

"What does Gaia think about it?" Bellamy ponders aloud, washing his mouth out with wine. He's sure his teeth are stained red, his tongue cherry coloured. He sticks it out to try and see, crossing his eyes with his efforts. 

"She- _Bell, quit doing that with your face-_ she's alright with it." Clarke shrugs. "She always felt bad that I went into handling after we got married." 

Bellamy snorts. "Only _you_ would marry the police captain's _daughter."_

Clarke giggles, a little wine-drunk, and Bellamy can't help but smile with her.

"Who's paying for this job again?" He swirls the bottle around, feeling the weight of the alcohol tipping the glass side to side. "Who did John Murphy piss off _this_ time?" 

"Don't know, don't care." Clarke's neck falls back, over the arm of the couch. "Could be half the city. The world is his oyster!" 

They sit, silent, for a few minutes. They're comfortable enough around each other to leave the quiet between them, their minds both whirling a mind a minute. Bellamy's eyes follow the TV, blankly watching the two high school bad boys battle it out in the school hallway. 

Looks stupid.

Bellamy turns up the volume, watching intently for a few minutes. They're circling each other, eyeing one another up and down, _damn_ , you could cut the tension with a knife-

 _"Breaking news!"_ A newscaster interrupts. Bellamy groans disappointedly, rolling his eyes and freezing them upwards- if there's a higher power up there, would he stop pissing on Bellamy's parade? 

_"A world renowned piece by Renaissance painter Jan Gossaert has been reported missing, stolen during a deal by unknown perpetrators."_ The newscaster arranges his papers idly, looking into the camera seriously. " _'Madonna of the Fireplace' is valued at 7.5 million dollars and has been missing since yesterday evening. The two handlers of this piece as well as their security detail have also been reported missing. Lieutenant Indra Arbre gives her statement."_

"Ooh!" Clarke jolts up, gazing at the TV with rapt attention, watching her mother-in-law happily, clearly thinking of Gaia. Bellamy watches, an ugly feeling twisting in his gut. Envy is a green monster, people say, but to him, it comes in every colour. 

" _There are no suspects as of right now."_ Indra's imposing voice is just as intimidating through the TV. She was good at her job- but Bellamy is long past worrying about Clarke and his work being revealed, especially with Gaia in the know. " _The cameras were not only cut during the job, but wiped. We have reasons to believe that the perpetrators of this crime are the same ones who stole the "Madonna of the Cat" months ago."_

"Damn!" Clarke snaps, smacking the couch with fervor before pinching the bridge of her nose. "He's fucking _good_." 

Bellamy's jaw is somewhere on the floor, perhaps on the soft Persian rug he's so fond of. 

"I can't fucking escape him." Bellamy mutters to himself, before throwing his head back and chugging the rest of the wine. 

Every. Last. Drop. 

* * *

_"Wanna get out of here?"_

_Murphy breaks the silence- a silence that had been comfortable, not at all awkward. It was strange, for strangers. Bellamy looks at him curiously._

_"Hitting on me?" Bellamy grins, even as Murphy rolls his eyes._

_"You fuckin' wish." He says snidely. "I'm bored, you're bored, and there's too many hours left in this night."_

_Bellamy looks towards the party, where Octavia is dancing with a girl with a slick, long, brown ponytail, swinging wildly in the music while the older attendees of the party look on with judgement._

_"Oh, whoever you came with will be fine." Murphy says crossly. "I'm sure they're an adult and can get home themselves."_

_Bellamy glares at him, but his words do sink._

_Octavia's a big girl now. He can't protect her forever._

_"Where are you thinking of?" Bellamy walks with him- as they stroll, their hands brush, and Bellamy barely holds back the flinch. It tingles, where the the back of Murphy's warm hand skimmed his._

_"Somewhere with some decent shots." Murphy's eyes twinkle under the lamplights of the street. Bellamy realises, hopelessly, that he'd end up following this man anywhere. "_ Anywhere _with decent shots. We'll make an adventure out of it, Bellamy. Just you wait."_

* * *

Murphy watches the news delightedly. Captain Indra Arbre radiates power and strength, even through a plasma, high-definition screen, but she's out of her depth, here. Laying against the wall next to the television, "Madonna of the Fireplace" and "Madonna of the Cat" sit side by side, Jasper squatting in front, inspecting them carefully. 

"Madonna and Madonna." He singsongs, his magnifying glass skimming over the paintings slowly, looking for flaws and faults. 

It's a neat apartment Murphy's got, not a penthouse suite, but large all the same. There's guest rooms for each of them- Jasper, Raven and Octavia, as well as plenty of wall space to house their treasures before they're sold again. Leather couches, sleek black tables, porcelain vases, thin oriental rugs. 

It's neat, alright. Murphy's kind of proud to call this place home. 

"I'm lighting up." Jasper shouts, a joint hanging loosely from his fingers. Raven shoos him out onto the balcony, not wanting smoke to get near the paintings, her hands flapping wildly. 

_"Law enforcement is working this case around the clock."_ Indra finishes, stepping away from the microphones of her press conference. The screen cuts back to the newscaster, who promptly moves on to something much more boring- the weather, oh, who _cares?_

Octavia plops down next to him on the leather couch, the sofa sinking with her weight, crossing her legs and resting her back. Her long black hair, pin straight, falls down her muscled shoulders, covering her intricate tattoo. She smiles- there are no dimples, but the eyes are same, with the crinkles in the corners. 

She looks so much like _him_ , yet so different. 

"Penny for your thoughts?" She nudges him. Her voice is hoarse, raspy- just like _his_. A pair of siblings, smoking a pack a day since they were too too too young. 

Murphy swallows the forming lump in his throat. 

"My thoughts are worth _much_ more than a penny." He grouses. Octavia doesn't back down from his bark- she smirks, flicking her eyes skywards and for a flash, Murphy sees Bellamy again- 

_How did this happen to him?_ It was _mortifying,_ feeling this much. Feeling this much about _him._

"Have you talked to him?" Murphy blurts, snapping his mouth shut in slight horror. Octavia's eyes are curious till it clicks- her face stiffens, her mouth presses into a hard line, and her eyes turn sad, just for a split second before icing over again. 

"I leave him a note, once a month." She mutters. "I know he worries- but he doesn't write back. He can't. He doesn't know where I am." 

Murphy nods, dropping his head a little. Octavia had done a hell of a thing, leaving her brother, _betraying_ her brother, because of a stupid dream and a fast-paced romance. She stands by her decision- Octavia's loyal, she's strong, and she's got a wicked shot. 

Just like her brother.

"Do you regret it?" Murphy wonders aloud. 

Octavia exhales deeply, her eyes flicking to her girlfriend, sitting outside with her red jacket and leg brace propped on the patio table, her smile shining under the balcony lamps. "He and I'll meet again. I just don't know when." 

Murphy's never had to choose before. Murphy's never _needed_ to choose before. 

He thinks it would be nice, having those options. Even if they hurt a little. 

"I don't know what went down between you guys, Murphy. But you've got to let him go." Octavia says softly, patting him on the shoulder before stepping outside onto the balcony to join Jasper and Raven. Through the glass doors, he watches as she pecks Raven on the cheek, who beams at her like she hung the fucking moon. 

His gut twists, and one final look at Octavia's black hair and brown eyes turns into Bellamy Blake once more. 

* * *

_"Got a gallery?"_

_Murphy thinks of the large, cold warehouse on the outskirts of the city, paintings worth millions with white sheets hiding them from the world, waiting to be traded and sold._

_"Something like that." Murphy quirks his mouth. Bellamy narrows his eyes, just barely- a tic._

_Murphy's not really sure what to make of this Bellamy character. He didn't think law enforcement suited him- him with his expensive cufflinks and polished shoes and watch on his wrist, that shined under bright neon signs of the red light district. He looks too dangerous, too elegant. It's enticing._

_Cars go by, honking and hooting, and the streets are busy, girls and boys alike brushing by them, in their own conversation, in their own world._

_"What type of law enforcement do you do?" Murphy returns- it's a game, it's a fun game, the two of them dancing around each other in a sequence of subtle side comments and quirks. Murphy knows that Bellamy knows that Murphy knows both of them are lying. It's a matter of who gets the truth first._

_"The secret type." Bellamy jibes. The lamplight illuminates his curls, bright around his head like a halo. Murphy gulps._

_"I can keep a secret." Murphy says lowly, ignoring the rasp in his own voice. He's known this man not even an hour, but somehow, he's hopelessly, irrevocably being drawn into his orbit, a gravitational pull that he couldn't ignore if he tried._

_He then notes the pink in Bellamy's cheeks, how he's quickly scrambling through his pockets for a smoke. Murphy grins, slowly, as it dawns on him._

_Maybe Bellamy's being drawn into him too._

* * *

"How are we gonna do this?" 

Clarke slaps her hands down on the table of their office. Bellamy's polishing his pistol- it's small, discreet, and pretty deadly with a sure shot like his. He's quite fond of it. 

"Monty's running diagnostics on the cameras that went down the other day." Bellamy reports monotonously, his fingers nimbly dragging the rag in between the nooks and crannies of his gun. "Miller is working the streets- asking around and the like- looking for their warehouse. He never avoids the clubs for long, too." 

Bellamy's heart aches in a pang, when he remembers the night he met John Murphy. Pale skin glowing under flashing club lights, his rasp of a voice audible even over a pounding bass. The way his throat was bared as he threw back shot after shot. His earrings sparkling, his eyelids low, his tattoos snaking under the fabric of his clothes.

Clarke's traded her handler heels for practical boots, her silk skirts and shirts returned for her beloved pantsuits. Her long blonde hair has been chopped off into a bob, curling at her shoulders. Bellamy grins at the sight of her- it's nostalgic, working like this, with her again- his best friend. 

"Do you think Murphy knows we're after him?" Clarke's fingers whiz across the keyboard, doing deep dives of the dark web. Bellamy returns his now shining pistol back into the lapels of his jacket, buttoning it up quickly. 

"He'll find out." Bellamy looks at his pack of Marlboro Reds with a pang, before sliding a cigarette out and lighting it with practiced ease. "He always does." 

"It's a miracle he's still alive." Clarke mutters, plopping down onto the office chair and kicking her feet up onto the desk. She pulls her own cigarettes out of her pocket- Marlboro Golds, _ugh-_ and lights up, and the two of them fill the room with acrid smoke. 

"He's stolen a piece from the wrong guy." Bellamy feigns boredom, disinterest. "It was only a matter of time." 

It's not boring, nor is it uninteresting. Bellamy's stomach twists into knots at the idea of killing Murphy once and for all. 

* * *

_"You're not really an art collector." Bellamy bites down on Murphy's bottom lip. It draws blood, and Bellamy can taste the salty iron in the other man's mouth._

_"And you're not really law enforcement." Murphy tugs at the curls behind Bellamy's head, jerking his head back. His hand brushes the knife in Bellamy's belt, but he pays no mind, seeming more amused than threatened. "Who the hell are you?"_

_Bellamy laughs into his mouth, his body vibrating with humour. "I'll figure you out first."_

_He tears the top button of Murphy's shirt, the button falling to the floor of the motel floor, forgotten._

_"Game on." Murphy whispers._

_Bellamy falls onto the bed, the younger man crawling on top of him, and he forgets all about solving Murphy._

* * *

"Bad news, boss." 

Raven swings onto the balcony, plopping herself on the table. Murphy rolls his eyes, but he smashes his cigarette into the ugly clear ashtray anyways. 

"Give it to me straight, won't ya?" Murphy snipes, rubbing his eyes. It's been a long day. Too long.

Raven clicks painted nails against the table, her mouth twisted into a grimace. Murphy's stomach sinks slightly, but his face remains neutral. 

"Someone's been hired to go after you. I just read the files." She kicks her feet, dangling from the table, her braced leg swinging back and forth. "You're not gonna like this." 

"They always try." Murphy scoffs, waving her away with a flick of his hand. "They give up or end up dead." 

Raven shakes her head insistently, nudging his thigh with a sneaker clad toe. "This one won't." 

Murphy's heart begins to beat a little faster, his mind jumping to the worst.

No.

( _Him?)_

What are the _fucking chances?_

"Bellamy Blake- he, _uh-_ he took your case." Raven mutters anxiously. 

( _Him.)_

And Murphy's heart races all the way out of his chest, off the balcony and _falls,_ down, down, _down._

* * *

_"You going?"_

_Murphy pauses where he sits, his fingers frozen at the bottom button of his shirt. Bellamy's voice, sated, quiet and tired, comes from the bed. The sheets mostly cover him, him with some semblance of modesty, but his bare chest, sweaty and shining underneath the motel room's dingy lights catch Murphy's attention anyways._

_"I don't mind." Bellamy says quietly, speaking again before Murphy gets a chance to open his mouth. "Your choice."_

_Murphy hadn't realised there were options._

_"You want me to stay?" Murphy bites his lip, cursing the anxiety that shows in his voice. His hands drop from where he was working on his buttons._

_"Like I said-" Bellamy's mouth curls into that half-smile of his, a dimple showing on his cheek. "- I don't mind."_

_Murphy slowly undoes his shirt for the second time of the night, shedding it as quickly as he'd put it on, letting it pool on the mostly likely filthy carpeted floor. He crawls under the covers, his body aching and tired- a lumpy motel mattress has never felt so good before._

_"Even if I did leave-" Murphy mumbles quietly, watching Bellamy's eyes flutter shut, halfway into the clutches of sleep. "- I'm pretty sure I'd find you again."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i absolutely blacked out when writing this something possessed me
> 
> kudos and comments are appreciated :)


	2. the annunciation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'the annunciation' is an oil on wood diptych by jan van eyck depicting the archangel gabriel and the virgin mary. the piece is dated between 1434 and 1436. the paintings rejects the uses of primary colors, as was common during the renaissance period, and an illusion of the figures being sculpted created._

Bellamy pushes past the bouncer, slipping a fifty into his waiting hand. Miller had pulled some strings, getting Bellamy into this club. It was highly exclusive, very expensive, and was for the city's _elite._

Of course John Murphy would have a _table_.

Monty had found out only hours earlier. No time to concoct a plan, no time to weigh the risks, no _time_.

There's never enough _time._

 _"I'm coming in through the back."_ Clarke's voice comes in through his earpiece. 

"Alright." He mumbles, slipping into the crowd. He pushes through the gyrating bodies and sweaty dancers, ignoring the pulls against his jacket and the shoves from unaware clubgoers. The music is overwhelmingly loud, and Bellamy scowls in the direction of the DJ, who sits above them all, spinning discs. Neon lights, red, blue, purple, pink flashing erratically, making Bellamy's eyes well up in his efforts to focus. 

Murphy's smart, making this club one of his limited public outings, with the target on his back. It's difficult, concentrating- Bellamy's eyes are flicking back and forth, his head pounding with each swell of the music. It's busy- Bellamy can't finish him here, and wouldn't be able to get a clean shot either way. 

Bellamy's mouth twists into a snarl. He'd have to settle for scouting, tonight. 

"Clarke." He mutters as he dodges the moving bodies. "I don't think tonight's the night." 

He's faintly relieved, that he can put off the inevitable, just one more night.

Bellamy feels sick, realising can't push it off forever. 

" _Didn't think so either. Who knows? Something might open up."_ Clarke is barely audible over the buzz of the club. " _We can have a look at his crew, though."_

His _crew-_ Bellamy had _completely_ forgotten about them. He frowns, at the blatant slip up- he'd been so tied up, thinking about Murphy, that he'd forgotten that he didn't work solo. 

_Octavia._

It hits Bellamy like a punch to the gut, winding him. 

Octavia who'd left him a note just a week earlier, letting him know she was alive. That's all. _Alive._

His baby sister was in this club somewhere, on the other side. The _wrong_ side. 

He pushes the thoughts out of his mind with as much strength as he can muster- Clarke, Miller and Monty will try and convince him to drop the job, claiming conflict of interest. 

With the price tag attached to John Murphy? No chance he's leaving it to someone else. He's the company's finest for a reason. 

Octavia will forgive him.

( _Right?)_

Octavia will come back to him. 

( _She has to)_

" _Don't tell Miller and Monty, but I'm going to the bar."_ Clarke's exasperated voice breaks him out of his reverie. " _It's gonna be a long night."_

* * *

 _"You'll love her." Octavia says excitedly, passing him her cigarette, bouncing her leg up and down nervously. "She's- she's_ different, _I promise. And she's bringing a friend so you won't be alone."_

_Bellamy raises and eyebrow at her, his sister's face blurring slightly in the cloud of smoke that wafts up into his eyes. "You say that about all of them."_

_He doesn't mean it harshly, of course. It's no secret that Bellamy Blake is highly protective of his younger sister, and it shows._

_The two of them sit outside of a cafe on the riverbank, small empty cups of espresso on the table with an elegant looking ashtray between it. It's hot, the sun is merciless and Bellamy is only mildly intrigued about Octavia's latest fling._

_His uncharacteristically colourful shirt is unbuttoned by three, loose chains laying comfortably on his chest. His fingers find them, rubbing them gently. Spoils of his last job, enjoyed thoroughly by him. His sunglasses lie low on his freckled nose, all the better for observing the area. Tucked in his belt, the smallest gun he owns- just for protection._

_"Promise me you won't shoot her." Octavia hisses lowly, flicking her head around to avoid the prying ears of strangers. "I didn't shoot_ Gina, _and she was a bitch!_ " 

_Bellamy smirks as she snatches the cigarette out of his outstretched hand._

_"It was one time. Atom had it coming." He titters for sake of argument, and Octavia's about to open her mouth to protest until a pair of people turn the corner and onto the avenue the Blake siblings sat on._

_"That's them!" She whispers, smacking his leg excitedly. He scowls at her half-heartedly, but her attention is raptured by the approaching figures._

_On the left must be Raven- he recognises her, from the party a few weeks back, her seemingly trademarked red jacket vibrant under the sun. Her hair was long, tied in a tight ponytail. Tan, hooded eyes, rounded lips. Bellamy remembers her face, just in case._

_And on the right-_

_Oh._

_Bellamy knows_ that _face all too well. It plagues his thoughts more often than he's comfortable admitting._

_"Raven!" Octavia exclaims. "This is Bellamy, my brother. Bell, this is Raven. And he here is-"_

_"-Murphy. John Murphy." The younger man sticks out his hand, and he winks, so subtly, in the direction of Bellamy, away from the distracted women._

_His mouth dries up as he takes the hand, shaking it firmly. Bellamy hopes his hands weren't sweaty._

_"Nice to meet you, Bellamy." Murphy says grandly, before seating himself across from him. "You look kind of familiar."_

* * *

Murphy's been tirelessly scanning the crowd- he's here, he _knows_ he's here. He doesn't feel an ounce of guilt, wanting to see him, even if it meant he had to leave right away. 

Just a glimpse, for _closure._ That was _it._

It sounded like a lie, even in his head. 

"Drink." Jasper shoves a cocktail into his hand, something blue and fruity with an orange lining the rim. Murphy accepts it gratefully, winking his thanks at his friend, before returning his attentions to the club. 

He's got the best table in the house- overlooking the whole place, every individual body visible to his naked eye. He sinks into the plush velvet of the rounded chair- Jasper and Raven flanking him, blindly looking for the straw with his tongue. 

Sweet. Tangy. _Refreshing._ The drink was delicious. Murphy sips on it, satisfied, but he's completely focused on the people. 

His heart skips a beat every time he sees a hint of black curls, tan skin, broad shoulders. He almost drops his drink when he sees a man with freckles, but none of them are _him._

Murphy desperately begins to realise that Bellamy Blake might not be here. 

"Quit it, Murphy." Raven nudges him sharply- a few drops of his delicious-fruity-orange-blue drink fly onto his shirt, and he sends her a pointed glare, dabbing at his clothing delicately. 

"Quit _what?"_ Murphy fakes a yawn, but Raven just looks at him blankly. She's always known him too well, always been able to see through his act. 

"Looking for him." She says bluntly. "He's here, he's not here, who cares? We're celebrating our win." 

"Or did you forget that we just sold one of the Madonnas to _Thelonious Jaha?"_ Octavia chimes in. "Who knew the mayor was on the black market for art?" 

"I did." Raven preens. "I used to hack into the mayor's office computer system for fun." 

"Showoff." Jasper pipes up. Murphy bumps his knuckles against his waiting fist. 

"And if he was here-" Raven murmurs to him lowly, away from the prying ears of Jasper and Octavia. "- he's here to pump you with lead. That would put a damper on our business." 

"You _do_ love me." Murphy simpers sardonically, rolling his eyes at her playful smirk. 

He allows himself one last look of the club- he sees a head of black curls, but tears his gaze away immediately. After all, he's not here- no point getting his hopes up just for them to splinter on the floor once again. 

* * *

_"We've gotta stop meeting like this, Blake." Murphy walks alongside Bellamy, his hands shoved into his pockets, a few meters behind Octavia and Raven, who's hands are intertwined, their laughter tinkling in the air. "I'm gonna think you actually like me."_

_Bellamy looks so different from the Bellamy that Murphy met all those weeks ago. Softer. More human, maybe. Wearing colours, wearing jewellery, his relationship with his sister. The memory of the knife in Bellamy's belt that had clattered to the floor that night is only an afterthought. Perhaps he's in a business similar to Murphy's- he won't ask, because he won't tell._

_Bellamy chuckles airily, lowering his sunglasses to look at Murphy pointedly._

_"That would be bad, why?"_

_Murphy rolls his eyes and turns his head- hopefully Bellamy will see the blush on his neck and cheeks and mistake it for sunburn._

_He's in dangerous territory, here. He can't be here. He can't get attached._

_Not good for business._

_Murphy's attention is caught once more, by the two women in front of him. Raven is planting a kiss on Octavia's cheek, sweet and chaste, and he blinks, looking away with a pang._

_"I'll tell you a secret, Bellamy Blake. I'm no saint." Murphy grins, baring his teeth. "And you're law enforcement, aren't you?"_

_Bellamy's mouth twitches ever so slightly, and Murphy knows he's closing in on a truth._

* * *

Bellamy reaches into his jacket, feeling the cold metal handle of his trusty pistol, rubbing it for luck before sliding his empty hand back out. He wouldn't be using it, today, but he'd never go anywhere without it. 

He'd gone without it _once,_ in all his years of being in business. 

Bellamy remembers how Murphy didn't flinch at the presence of the knife in his belt instead. Perhaps if he'd looked a little harder, he would've found an identical one on Murphy that night. 

" _I got eyes on him."_ Clarke's tinny voice says. " _Top table, seated middle."_

Bellamy's mind and stomach and heart are all in a jumbled knot as he raises his head, as slowly as possible, to look for _him._

Oh. 

_There._

Bellamy wipes clammy hands on his pants. This is unprofessional, this is _so_ unprofessional, and his heart's in his throat and _fuck,_ he needs a cigarette, he needs a _goddamn cigarette._

John Murphy hadn't changed at all. His eyes are bright, electric blue, lined black, his pale skin washed with pink, then red, then green under flashing club lights. His posture is lazy, sunken into the seat he's in. His shirt is wide open, and Bellamy, if he squints, can see the faint outline of a gun handle on his belt, glinting for all the club to see. He's got a silly looking blue drink in his hand, the glass being held loosely by a limp wrist. Bellamy's heart _stops_ when Murphy's head turns to look around the entire club before pausing on him- his gaze remains there for a split second, and Bellamy's neck jerks down, his attentions on the dirty floor. 

His heart is punching a hole in his chest. _Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bumpba-bumpba-bump-_

When he looks back up, Murphy's attention is back on his crew.

_Octavia._

His chest aches as he sees his little sister, arm around Raven, smiling cheerfully with her friends. Her _family._ She radiates a type of lightness Bellamy hadn't seen from her in the while before she'd met Raven, before she'd _left_. Her cheeks are fuller, her eyes are twinkling, and Bellamy _swears_ he can hear her laughing, even over the bass-boosted music. An intricate tattoo on her shoulder, new. Her dark hair is a few inches shorter than it was the last time Bellamy saw her. 

Her last note had been the shortest. 

_"I'm okay."_

Bellamy is suddenly filled with a rage that floods his vision red- Murphy _stole_ her from him, stole his _sister,_ and was locking her away from him forever. Someone that he _loved._ How _dare_ he sit so happily, so comfortably with his friends, when Bellamy's waging a war on himself? His hands twitch for his pistol- he ought to shoot the thief, right there, in the middle of the club, and his blood would spatter all over Octavia's new tattoo and dampen her freshly trimmed hair-

" _Bellamy, you alright?"_

Clarke's voice interrupts his simmering, and a bubbling feeling of shame that eats Bellamy from the inside out. 

His sister is _happy._ Isn't that all he had ever wanted?

"I'm alright. I'll join you at the bar." Bellamy mutters, his gaze locking onto his target. John Murphy looks melancholic, illuminated by a kaleidoscope of neon colours, and Bellamy forces his eyes away once more.

* * *

 _Bellamy hadn't been able to fight his curiosity- he so desperately wanted to know Murphy, the_ whole _Murphy. He'd done some research, and with a little help from Monty, and had found himself in a vast warehouse, stacked with paintings. There had to be hundreds of millions of dollars in pieces here. His mouth drops as he lifts white sheet over white sheet- he's no art expert, but he recognises_ some _of these, from Clarke's numerous books about paintings. Occasionally, the sheet is lifted to reveal a statue, so majestic, ivory coloured and so very_ realistic.

_"Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?"_

_Bellamy whirls around, pointing his pistol in the direction of the voice, finger twitching on the trigger. He lets it fall limply to his side when he sees Murphy, sitting in an office chair by a desk in the dark corner of the warehouse. It looks so terribly mundane, the desk, with papers scattered over the polished wood, a small lamp relieving it from the shadows. Murphy looks so much sharper, in this lighting, his face still half shrouded in the dark._

_"It_ is _a gun." Murphy's brows flick up, but he doesn't seem all that shocked. "The plot thickens."_

_"This isn't a gallery." Bellamy states dumbly, and Murphy snickers, the sound of it bouncing around cold walls._

_"I never said it was." Murphy, though his mouth his grinning, has cold eyes, narrowed at the sight of Bellamy. A pool of dread grows at the pit of Bellamy's stomach. "In fact, I'm quite sure I said, '_ something like that', _that night."_

_Murphy beckons him with a waiting hand, standing up and patting the now vacant chair, opting to lean on the desk in a relaxed manner. Bellamy's every instinct is screaming that this is dangerous, he's in a red zone, he shouldn't be here- but somehow he finds himself approaching the chair anyways, sitting down gingerly on the seat, still warm from where Murphy had been occupying it._

_"Excuse the mess." Murphy's eyes glint dangerously, and Bellamy gulps- is his heart racing because he's scared, or something else? Murphy seems to have an undeniably strong effect on him. "I normally work at home, but I was told to expect a visitor."_

_"How did you know I was coming?" Bellamy grips the arm rests, his knuckles turning white. "Who are you?"_

_Murphy rolls his eyes. "I should be asking the questions. How did you find this place?"_

_He sits atop the desk, his legs swinging almost childishly, barely brushing Bellamy's shins every time he kicks. Bellamy reaches into his pockets- Murphy doesn't flinch, but his own hand moves ever so slightly towards his waistband._

_Bellamy pulls out his cigarettes._

_"I think we have a couple things to discuss, Murphy." He mouths around the roll. "Got a light?"_

* * *

Raven's checking her phone, whirling through the hundred different applications and operations that keep their business running below ground. Her mouth is twisted into a frown as she glares at the screen, her fingers working a mile a minute. 

"They're here." She says grimly. "Satellite clocked two earpieces in the club. We've gotta go." 

"I'm not finished my drink." Murphy hums absently, carelessly, taking his time with the final dregs of his blue drink, more melted ice than alcohol and syrup. Raven looks at him exasperatedly, tugging the sleeve of his shirt insistently. 

"Murphy, _now."_ She says urgently. Octavia and Jasper are already standing, waiting on their tiptoes. 

"You guys go first." Murphy narrows his eyes as he sees two heads at the bar, a blonde bob and a bunch of messy curls. "Take the back exit. Raven, call the car and go to the apartment. They're here for me, they won't tail you. Call me another car about fifteen minutes after." 

"But-" 

" _Go."_ Murphy hisses, slouching back into the soothing velvet. Raven curses under her breath, sparing him one last pointed glance before taking Octavia's hand and walking away slowly, as to not raise suspicions. The blonde head turns around, her eyes following the balcony, and Murphy watches from his peripheral as she nudges curls. 

The sight of Bellamy Blake knocks the air out of Murphy's lungs, and he chokes as he temporarily forgets to breathe. 

He knows the two of them have seen Murphy, all alone, at the most visible table in the club. He prays nobody snipes him where he sits, sucking the last drops of his drink, listening to his own slurping sounds. 

The pair are on the move, and Murphy stands easily, feigning relaxation as he stretches up before he starts walking towards the back exit. He feels the inside of his waistband, the handle of his gun bringing him some semblance of comfort. He pushes the door to reveal a violently violet-lit alleyway, standing by the wall that marked a dead-end and popping a Marlboro Red in between his lips. 

The alleyway doesn't feel real, in this light, the walls painted lavender, the faint smell of day-old rainwater, vodka and puke assaulting Murphy's senses. It's the type of dark corner that Murphy finds ease in, relaxing as he's shrouded in purple light and blackened shadows. There's no sign of Raven, Octavia and Jasper, and he lets himself breathe a little.

Not for long.

The door swings open once again, and the energy shifts, tightening Murphy's ribcage as he struggles to exhale and inhale evenly again. 

The leather shoe steps out first, silver buckles sparkling purple under the neon signs. He's alone, his blonde friend nowhere to be found.

"Bellamy Blake." Murphy blows out a cloud of smoke, watching as the wisps float upwards. "Fancy seeing you here."

* * *

_Murphy finds himself looking cross eyed into the barrel of a gun. Bellamy Blake smirks around the cigarette, which hangs loosely from his lips, his eyes low and lashes fluttering._

_"What are you?" Bellamy asks, looking all too relaxed for a man pointing a pistol at someone. "What is this place?"_

_Two clicks. They echo through the empty warehouse. Murphy has a gun in each hand, pointed carelessly in the direction of Bellamy, safety off. Murphy feels a small sense pride at the flash of surprise that skims over Bellamy's face, just a split-second of weakness before his eyes ice over once again, revealing nothing._

_Murphy leans his head against the barrel, the cold metal digging uncomfortably into his scalp._

_"Didn't do your homework?" Murphy taunts. "Like I said, I'm an art collector."_

_"Liar." Bellamy says._

_Click. Safety off._

_"Just not in a legal sense." Murphy finishes. "Your turn."_

_Bellamy plucks the cigarette out of his mouth with his free hand- in a gesture of goodwill, he places it gently in Murphy's mouth. Surprised, he inhales slowly anyways, greedy._

_"I'm law enforcement." Bellamy says, amused. "In the hired sense. In the not legal sense."_

_Two clicks. Safety on. Murphy tucks his guns back into his waistband, crossing his arms relaxedly._

_"So what, officer?" Murphy says innocently, batting his lashes. "Gonna arrest me?"_

_Bellamy slowly puts his gun back into his lapel, slowly, and reaches out. Murphy finds himself being pulled off the desk and into the bigger man's lap._

_"I'll keep your secret if you keep mine." Bellamy whispers huskily, his gaze resting on Murphy's lips. "Otherwise, I'm going to have to kill you."_

* * *

It's not the first time Murphy's looked a gun in the eye, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Bellamy's normally steady hand is shaking, and he curses himself. 

_He could do it. He could kill him now. He could put a bullet in his head and John Murphy and his legacy would disintegrate from the city. He could have Octavia back._

"Why did you stay, Murphy?" Bellamy grits out. "You could've gone with your friends." 

Murphy shrugs- he's so nonchalant, so _calm,_ and Bellamy's stomach is tied into a million different knots. It's not fair, _none_ of this is fair. 

"Wanted to see you." Murphy says- his voice is even, not even a hint of waver, but Bellamy's knees suddenly don't feel all too stable. He drops his hand, slowly, but his finger remains on the trigger. 

"You can't say that." Bellamy snaps. "You can't _do_ that." 

"Do _what?"_ Murphy snarls. "Think what you want, Blake. I said what I said." 

Bellamy rubs his eyes- he's suddenly tired, he's _so_ tired. 

"You're a hypocrite." Murphy crosses his arms. "You wanted to see me too." 

Bellamy jerks his head up, sending Murphy an angry, incredulous glare. 

"No I didn't." Bellamy mutters- is he trying to convince Murphy, or himself? "What the hell makes you think that?" 

Murphy scoffs- _God,_ the way he looks under the light, glowing with a lavender tint, his blue eyes all the more striking, mesmerising. How his necklaces and jewels catch his eye, too much, shaking his focus. 

"You didn't have to take the job." Murphy says- is that _sadness?_ Is that _sadness_ Bellamy hears, tinging the frays of his voice, so lowly, so _quietly?"_

"Someone else would've taken it." Bellamy mumbles. 

"Yeah." Murphy's angry, his sapphire eyes glinting furiously. "Someone that wasn't _you."_

Bellamy's mouth gapes awkwardly- his mind is at a standstill, he needs to say something, _anything._

( _He needs to kill him)_

"Where's your friend?" Murphy beats him to the chase. "The blonde?" 

Bellamy's realisation slowly dawns on him, with every word he hears slipping out of Murphy's mouth. 

He took the job. He did the research. He came to the club. He sent Clarke home to Gaia, only so he could deal with Murphy on his own. 

"Scouting the perimeter for _your_ friends." Bellamy lies easily. Murphy rolls his eyes. 

Yeah- Bellamy wasn't all that convinced by himself either.

Murphy reaches into his waistband, and Bellamy raises his gun. Murphy knocks the safety off his pistol, raising it, raising it, raising it- 

and he points it at his own head, the cylinder brushing his temple. 

"So what are you gonna do now, officer?" Murphy smirks, throwing his head back to bare his neck, his hair flying backwards and out of his eyes. "Arrest me?" 

* * *

_"What's next on the agenda, Blake?" Murphy shrugs on his shirt, his pistols and knives laid out on the desk, shucked off his body in a fit of passion. "Assassinating the mayor?_ "

_Bellamy snorts, buckling his belt, slipping his cigarettes into his his pocket easily. "I don't have any jobs at the moment."_

_Murphy whistles lowly, tucking knives into his boots. Bellamy watches him in movement, all lithe muscles wiring underneath his skin as he stretches. It's hypnotic, and Bellamy finds himself staring._

_"Lucky you." Murphy buttons his shirt, pressing his twin pistols into his belt._

_"Busy, are you?" Bellamy's fingers work nimbly at his tie, looping and knotting it easily._

_Murphy exhales huffily, irritation radiating off him. "I'm recruiting."_

_Bellamy's eyebrows rise imperceptibly._

_"I've got my eye on someone." Murphy sounds strangely uncomfortable. "They're a good fighter. Dangerous. I've been looking for one like them, for a while."_

_Bellamy lights a cigarette. "Then hire them."_

_Murphy sighs. "It's up to them. They'd be leaving a lot behind."_

_Bellamy cocks his head curiously at Murphy's suddenly tense demeanour, talking about recruiting. Some secrets would remain unknown, it appeared._

_He wanted to know Murphy. The whole Murphy. It's why he showed up to the warehouse in the first place._

_"Will I see you again?" Bellamy blurts, as Murphy makes to leave, turning slowly._

_Murphy turns to him, his eyes looking a little sad._

_"I'd like to. More than you know." He mutters. "But things are going to be different soon." He salutes him, giving Bellamy a slow once-over- it feels like goodbye, and Bellamy can't figure out_ why. 

_"In another lifetime, Bellamy Blake." Murphy finishes, and he steps out of the warehouse, leaving Bellamy and his smoke alone with his thoughts._

* * *

_"No!"_ Bellamy cries out as Murphy presses the trigger in slow motion, dropping his gun to the ground and squeezing his eyes shut as a resounding " _bang!"_ deafened him. 

Silence. Dead silence. It's painfully loud, ringing through Bellamy's skull until it's all he knows, all he can focus on. 

Bellamy doesn't dare open his eyes, doesn't dare look up- he doesn't have it in him to look down at the crumpled body of John Murphy, bleeding out and turning purple puddles red. 

"I knew it." 

Bellamy almost gets whiplash from how he jolts his neck up to attach a body to the voice. _His_ voice. 

Murphy's standing. There is no crumpled body. There are no red puddles. 

"A blank." Murphy sounds almost apologetic. "But I _knew_ it." 

Bellamy dives for his gun, laying innocently on the floor, but what Murphy lacks in strength he makes up for in speed, and he kicks it out of reach, all the way down the other end of the alleyway. A car rolls up on the road, the windows shimmying down as it slows to a stop, engine still running. Raven sits in the drivers seat, seemingly unbothered by the standoff going on, gesturing at Murphy to hurry it up. 

Bellamy feels the barrel of Murphy's gun against his temple- he's not going to risk another trick with the blank, so he falls to his knees, dirty water soaking into his pants and cooling his legs. He folds his hands behind his head- will he die today? Would Octavia let him die, at the hands of her boss? 

Would Murphy really kill him?

"What did you know?" Bellamy mutters softly. Raven is beckoning Murphy now, getting more frustrated as time ticks on. 

"Count to twenty when my gun leaves your head." Murphy says, his voice stuttering a little. "If you stand up and run after me, I'll kill you." 

Bellamy shuts his eyes, waiting for the the pressure against his head to diminish. 

"I don't want to do that." Murphy mumbles. "Please don't stand up." 

Bellamy's eyes flicker open again, and he turns his head ever so slightly to look directly into Murphy's blues. 

"What did you know?" Bellamy repeats, insistently, stubbornly.

Murphy quirks his mouth up, a little sad, a little amused. 

"I knew you cared." 

And Bellamy watches, his heart breaking a little more with every second that goes by, as Murphy walks backwards, gun still raised, his ocean eyes never leaving Bellamy's earthen ones, until he's in the car and driving away, away, away. Even then, Bellamy watches as the car goes, until it's a faint little spot on the street, the only sign of Murphy's presence being car fumes and an orangey scent.

* * *

_Bellamy's ready to go home- he's tired, he's really tired, and he wants nothing more than to curl up on the couch next to his sister and laugh at stupid sitcoms that they've religiously watched since they were kids._

_He shrugs his jacket off at the door, hooking it on the ugly coathanger, abnormally bare from Octavia's coats, that she's so insistent on keeping, stepping into the large living room that he proudly shares with his sister._

_"Octavia!" He calls. "I'm home."_

_Silence._

_Bellamy sighs- she must be out with her new girlfriend again. That's alright, it's alright, she's_ happy, _and Bellamy wants Octavia to be happy. It's all he's ever wanted._

_He goes into the kitchen, rummaging through cupboards for a wine glass, snatching an unopened bottle from atop the fridge, a gift from Gaia. He pours himself a generous glass, relaxing as he listens to the glugglugglug of the bottle emptying, before stepping back out into the living room._

_On the coffee table lies a piece of paper. Bellamy frowns at it, picking it up curiously._

_Octavia was neat, meticulous and tidy. She'd never just leave scrap paper around._

_Her handwriting dances across the page, and Bellamy stands, paper in one hand, glass in the other, reading._

"Bellamy, 

This will come as a shock to you- but I've left the company. I've found a job that I'm excited to be apart of. I'm in love with Raven, and she offered me a job with her crew. This is all good news, of course, but there's something else you need to know.

I can't live with you anymore, I can't tell you where I'm moving, and we can no longer see each other, talk on the phone, nothing. It's to protect them. There's a reason Raven never told me or you her last name. And my new job- well, it's what we used to try and get rid of. Your job.

I don't know when the next time I can see you again will be. I'll find a way of letting you know I'm alive, so you don't need to worry.

Murphy is being really generous, offering me this job. The pay is amazing, it's something new, and the people are friendly. But you know he can't see you anymore, either.

I don't know what went on between you and him, but it seems to eat at him. It distracts him. And I think it'll distract you. And for that, I'm so sorry Bellamy. I'm so, so sorry. 

May we meet again, Bellamy. I love you.

Sincerely, O. _"_

_Bellamy can't breathe. He can't breathe, he can't breathe, he's lost everything-_

_The wine glass slips out of Bellamy's hand shattering on the ceramic floor and staining it red._


	3. melun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the melun diptych is a piece by french painter jean fouquet. created in 1452, the painting depicts the virgin and christ child on one panel, etienne chevalier and the patron saint st. stephens on the other. the piece has been separated for a long period of time._
> 
> _they don't look quite right without each other._

The days pass in a blur, for Murphy. Steal a painting, sell it. Steal a painting, sell it. Over and over again in an unbreakable cycle. 

It's alright. Murphy likes his routines. 

He stands in a private room of the museum, staring up at his newest target. _"Madonna of the Book."_

The woman in the work looks down at her child so gently, so full of love. The baby looks up at her, too young, too innocent, too naïve to understand what she should mean to him. The warmth the painting emanates just makes Murphy feel so much colder. 

The handler of the painting has his hand up, gesturing at the piece. His mouth is moving, but Murphy doesn't register his voice, doesn't register the words. He doesn't _care_ about what it all means, he doesn't _care_ about colour symbolism, he doesn't _care_ about this painting other than how much it's worth. 

It means _nothing_ to him. 

He's filled with so much hate, looking at the panel of wood hanging on the blank wall, furious at himself. 

He could've had it _all,_ but money had felt so much heavier than a heart, at the time. 

" _Cameras down."_ Raven's voice breaks into his mind- she's quiet, as if she knows he's hurting, treating him like broken glass, and he flinches, just barely. Gunshots ring down the hall, where the security detail had been stationed. Octavia's doing her job, so perfectly, so skilfully- it's moments like this that Murphy thinks it's worth it. Worth losing _him._

It's a sadattempt at a lie. 

"I'm real sorry." Murphy says to the handler politely, coldly, not feeling very sorry at all. The poor man is frozen in motion, his hands paused limply in the air. "Guy's gotta eat." 

He knocks the handler out with the butt of his gun, watching as he collapses in a heap to the floor, a gash across his cheek oozing scarlet. Murphy presses the cylinder to the man's temple, pressing the trigger quickly. Blood spills from the wound slowly, spreading across the floor like a red halo. 

Poetic. Murphy sniffs. He's been surrounded by art and artists far too much. 

As he unhooks the painting from the wall, relishing the weight of the wood in his hand, he doesn't spare the room another glance, meeting Octavia in the hallway. 

For a split-second, Murphy startles, every single time he sets his gaze on his colleague. 

_God,_ does she look like her brother.

* * *

Clarke steps into Bellamy's apartment, blood spattered all over her hands and arms. She shrugs her jacket off casually, letting it drop to the floor. 

Bellamy's watching the news in his boxers, glaring at the television as he hears about the fourth Madonna robbery of the past two weeks. His scruff is growing out, his hair is more unruly than normal, and he reeks of wine.

Murphy's going on a spree- each operation more and more rash. Every time he sees Indra on the screen, a new piece of evidence, a new clue, his heart drops out of his chest and spatters on his floor, breaking more and more each time. 

No matter. Bellamy will just pick it up and put it back into his chest, ready to rinse and repeat. 

It's alright. Bellamy likes his routines. 

"You look like shit." Clarke sighs, and she steps into the kitchen. He hears the tap running quickly before she comes back out, dropping next to Bellamy on the couch. 

"Job?" Bellamy mutters questioningly, lowering the volume on the television even when he can't tear his eyes away. 

"Senator Kane has mysteriously disappeared to never be found again. It was messy. I'm going back to handling you." Clarke says grimly, taking her holster off and tossing it haphazardly onto the table. "How's the Murphy job coming along?" 

Bellamy feels a pang of sorrow at hearing his name- it shows, and Clarke's face crumples into one of pity. Bellamy doesn't want pity. 

He wants- 

well, he wants- 

Bellamy doesn't know what he wants. 

"You're gonna get your pay docked, if it takes this long." Clarke pats his shoulder. "Either drop the case- you know Miller and Monty and I won't mind- or get it done." 

"I will!" Bellamy snaps, rubbing his eyes. It comes off colder than he intends, but Clarke doesn't flinch. She huffs, her hand never leaving his shoulder. 

Bellamy drops his hands to his lap, miserable and aching. 

"I'm sorry." He mumbles. "I didn't think it was going to be like this."

"I know." Clarke soothes. "Feeling things about it- it's okay." 

Bellamy slouches into the couch, sinking into the plush even more than he already was. "It's not." 

"Oh, Bellamy." Clarke smiles sympathetically. "You can't be a perfect little soldier all the time." 

Bellamy gets up, all of a sudden- he pinches himself, the pain waking him up only marginally. He's going to work, he's going to fix this, he's going to kill Murphy and he's going to get his sister back. 

He'd make things right. 

"Yes I can, Clarke." Bellamy says, his voice monotonous and even. "I have to be." 

* * *

Murphy sits on his balcony alone, nursing a gin and tonic in one hand and his trusty cigarette in the other. His knives and gun lay on the table innocently, forgotten. The sun is setting on the city, washing it in orange and pink glow. The skyscrapers are lighting up, the bustle of the day turning into the bustle of the evening.

The night will begin, and the city will become even more alive, the miscreants and misdeeds creeping out of it's dark corners. 

His cigarette is dying, the embers flickering out, but Murphy's not one to waste. He breathes out, letting acrid smoke blur his vision for a flash before all is clear again. 

_Bellamy Blake couldn't kill him._

The irrefutable fact is on Murphy's mind every waking moment and plagues his dreams when he's asleep. When he's busy, it rests in the back of his mind, waiting for a moment of relaxation to pop back into centre stage of his thoughts. 

_Bellamy Blake cared for him._

How he cried out when Murphy tested his theory, how he'd shut his eyes at the gunshot, how he'd fallen to his knees in surrender- Murphy had only stayed, to test a theory. To see if the moments they'd shared had been a part of his overactive imagination or something truly _real._

Bellamy was infamous, in those dark corners of the city with the miscreants and misdeeds. He was a sure shot, a deadly weapon, a soldier of the city's richest and most notorious. He had an almost perfect record, figures in the city wiped cleanly off the map just as quickly as they'd rose to the top.

Murphy wonders, sometimes, what life would be like had Bellamy just known Octavia left to work for him. The betrayal had come from her leaving with no trace, her presence in his life all but disappeared. 

Bellamy and Octavia would still be united. Raven and Octavia would still be happily in love. Murphy's crew would still have their warrior. 

Murphy and Bellamy, they'd-

Well. 

Murphy doesn't like thinking about what could've been, between the two of him. Oh, how it hurts, remembering that first night they met, how Murphy had become so irrevocably tangled in the world of Bellamy Blake. 

He downs the rest of the gin and tonic, the burn at the back of his throat turning numb.

* * *

Bellamy finds himself in the warehouse, only mildly surprised that Murphy hadn't moved his work, especially with Bellamy in the know of it's location. 

It's just as large and cold as the first time he'd entered it, but he knows his way around now, through the labyrinth of shelves, some packed and some empty, organised in a manner that Bellamy can't decode. 

His hands are at the handle of his gun as he creeps around, finger sitting gently on the trigger. His footsteps are light, as quiet as possible. The warehouse is lit with fluorescent white lights, harsh and bright. It makes sneaking around much more difficult, but Bellamy's been in more difficult situations before. 

He hears breathing.

Bellamy's not alone, in this big old warehouse. 

He immediately quiets his own breathing- but it's too late. Whoever's in here has made the realisation themselves that they had company, and had quieted. 

Bellamy raises his gun. 

A gunshot sings through the air. It's not Bellamy's- the wood about a meter away from his head splinters. He ducks immediately, skirting around the corners of the shelf. 

A flash of movement in the corner of his eye. Bellamy shoots, the crack of the bullet hitting the shelf deafening. 

"Watch the work, officer." 

How quickly Bellamy's blood runs cold, at the husky sound of _his_ voice. He shoots, for good measure, dropping the empty clip to the floor with a clatter and replacing it it one smooth motion as he's walking through the shelves briskly, with purpose, lifting his gun once more. 

"You can run, Murphy-" Bellamy singsongs, confident, _strong_ , his head swivelling for a glimpse of him. 

_There._ A flash of movement, and Bellamy shoots. A shelf cracks again. 

"- but you can't hide!" 

Bellamy can feel his mojo coming back with every sure step he takes, the soles of his polished shoes beating on the floor. 

"I don't know, officer-" God, Bellamy _hates_ that nickname. He flinches at the sound of Murphy, a voice hovering through the warehouse with no mouth to credit it to. "-I'm pretty damn good at it." 

"Cocky." Bellamy calls, swerving into an aisle and shooting blindly, disappointed yet faintly relieved that it was empty. 

"Why don't we put the guns away and talk about this like gentlemen?" Murphy's disembodied voice shouts. Bellamy pinpoints it to the other end of the warehouse, and he's quiet, approaching the area. He levels his breathing until it's inaudible, his shoes patting on the cement floor silently. 

"What are you playing at, Bellamy?" Murphy's voice shows a hint of desperation, a slight exasperation. There's a hitch in his tone at the end of his question, and Bellamy's breath almost catches. 

_Almost._

He turns into the open space and there Murphy sits, relaxed on the office chair like he'd been the first time Bellamy had entered the warehouse. He's idly watching how the light is shining on his guns, his one leg bent and propped on the other. 

Bellamy refuses to let his hands quiver. They remain steady, leeching all of his energy. 

"Oh, put it away, for God's sake." Murphy snaps, tossing his guns onto the table. "You're not going to shoot me, I'm not going to shoot you." 

Bellamy quickly lowers his gun, purposely letting it fire on the floor inches away from Murphy's foot, the cement crumbling at the spot. The younger man doesn't flinch- he looks almost _bored,_ instead, rolling his eyes. 

It infuriates Bellamy. 

"You don't know that." Bellamy raises the gun to point at Murphy's head again, putting one foot in front of the other slowly. 

"I do." Murphy says primly, folding his empty hands in front of him. 

"How?" Bellamy's voice wavers just slightly, cracking on the syllable. No matter- he keeps his arm up. 

"I'd be dead by now." He says simply- he pulls out a cigarette, and Bellamy doesn't know how to feel when he sees that pack of Marlboro Reds. 

Murphy rummages through his pockets, sighing. He's so painfully _calm,_ in the face of death- Bellamy could end his life, right here, right now, and it seems to be the last thing on his mind. 

"Officer." He beckons. Bellamy's seeing red- it'd be _so_ easy, putting a bullet in his skull. "Got a light?" 

Bellamy does have a lighter. It's in his lapel, right now, next to his own pack of cigarettes. Murphy knows this. Murphy knows _Bellamy._

"No?" Murphy sighs, mockingly annoyed. There's something wrong- the energy in the air shifts, and the hairs on the back of his neck prick. "That's too bad." 

His face flashes with something Bellamy can't quite identify- regret? Sadness? He's trying to figure it out, he needs to know...

Bellamy crumples to his knees, his own pistol falling to the floor without fanfare as he's hit with the butt of a gun sharply to the back of his head. 

"I'm sorry, big brother." A feminine voice whispers into his ear, cradling him as he falls. The spots dancing in his vision get larger as he tries to get up, tries to reach his weapon.

The last thing he sees is Murphy burying his head in his hands, mouth twisted into a miserable frown, and the warehouse cuts to black.

* * *

"I didn't want to do that." Octavia's lip trembles, stroking her big brother's curls. "I really didn't want to do that. I thought he was going to kill you."

She's sat in the backseat, Bellamy's unconscious form slumped over her lap. Murphy sighs from the driver's seat, glancing at the pair in the rearview. His knuckles grip the wheel with fervor, turning white with his efforts.

"I know." Murphy tears his eyes away from Bellamy's peaceful face, absent from worry lines or frowns or smiles or _anything._

He looks almost dead. 

"He's going to hate me." Octavia says miserably, and a tear finally drops from her eye. "He _already_ hates me." 

Murphy tuts, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. 

"The reason why he took the job," Murphy says carefully. "Is because he _loves_ you. He wants you back. He wants revenge on me." 

Octavia stares down at her brother- Murphy watches her probe the back of his head, where her gun had struck him. "I should've just _told_ him I wanted to leave. If I talked to him, none of this would've happened." 

Murphy gnaws at his lip, biting down into the flesh until it drew blood. He didn't register the sting, only the salty taste on his tongue. 

"I should've just told him I wanted to recruit you." He says softly, a rare moment of gentility, his tongue flicking down to wipe the blood on his lip. "We made mistakes. We can fix them." 

"How?" Octavia whispers.

Murphy turns the wheel onto the street he lives on, rolling into the parking lot underneath his building. 

* * *

The first thing Bellamy feels is a throb in the back of his head. 

Then another. 

Then another. 

With increasing strength, the pain rattles through Bellamy's skull as his eyes flutter open, groaning at the sunset's orange glow filtering through the window. 

The window with a view he didn't recognise. 

He jolts up immediately, wincing at the soreness in his head, his stomach churning and the room spinning. 

"Easy, Bell, relax." 

Octavia's voice wraps him in a warm hug so quickly, the pain in his head all but forgotten as he looks at her sitting in a plush armchair next to the bed, looking at him anxiously. The bags under her eyes are dark and deep, and she's fidgeting with her fingers. 

The pain in his head comes back when he remembers why he had it. 

"Where is he?" Bellamy's voice trembles with fury, turning back to the window and purposefully avoiding Octavia's face. 

She stays quiet, and Bellamy turns to her, eyes blazing and she flinches. He doesn't even feel the slightest remorse. 

" _Where is Murphy?"_ He hisses, his hands clutching at the soft duvet. 

"He left." Octavia murmurs quickly. "It's just you and me here." 

"Where is _here?"_ Bellamy snaps, glaring around the room. The bed is large, high off the ground and hopelessly comfortable- it's by sheer anger that Bellamy's not sinking back into it. There's a soft carpet on the ground where Octavia's feet are planted, her socked feet tapping at the ground relentlessly with nerves. 

"Murphy's apartment." Octavia says. "Let me explain, Bell, _please._ "

Bellamy snorts incredulously, staring his sister down. She doesn't back down, looking him in the eye evenly, the most strength she's shown in the couple minutes Bellamy's been awake. 

When he remains silent, she begins. 

"I'm sorry." She starts, her voice steady. "I'm sorry I left the way I did. I should've just talked to you. Murphy offered me the job with conditions and I didn't consider you. It was selfish, Bellamy."

She sighs, rubbing her eyes. Octavia looks so much older, tired, weight wearing down on her that Bellamy wasn't focused enough to see- it was so unlike the Octavia Bellamy had seen in the club only weeks earlier. 

"You left a _note."_ Bellamy spits. "You just- you just _left."_

"I wish I could change how I did it." Octavia mumbles. Bellamy notes the careful phrasing- _how_ she did it, not what she did. "I was just excited to start something new. I was- _am_ in love. I was rash."

Bellamy bows his head, trying to listen through the sting in his skull. 

"But you need to know, Bell- Murphy didn't _steal_ me." Octavia says strongly. "I'm not an _object._ I’m a _person._ An _adult._ "

"I know _that."_ Bellamy cuts in hotly, but quiets down at the pointed look she gives him. 

"Murphy didn't realise I was going to drop everything for the job." She says softly. "He knew that me leaving the company would be an issue for you, but he didn't know I was _leaving you."_

Bellamy's thoughts stutter a bit- perhaps it's the concussion that's developing- but his mind is blank. 

"I only want you to be happy, big brother." Octavia's voice cracks on the affectionate phrase, emotion spilling out into the space between them. "And Murphy thinks about you every day. About what he could've had. He asks about you, every once in a while. He sits on that patio next to the living room with his gin and tonic and Marlboro Reds and just- he just _sits,_ for _hours,_ and I know he's thinking about you." 

Bellamy's mouth is open, but no words come out- how could they? He doesn't know what to say.

"And I know you think about him too." Octavia finishes, folding her hands in her lap. "And I know it was fast, a lot for you two to process and you ended up pretending to hate each other because you couldn't handle it."

Octavia's words hit him like another blow to the head, his eyes fluttering as he feels a wave of exhaustion. 

"What do I do about it then, O?" Bellamy stares at his hands. Calloused from gun handling, knife handling, dirty, grimy work. Stained a hundred times over with the blood of his targets. 

It would be nice if they were held gently, for once. If he was taken care of. 

He thinks. 

He thinks. 

He thinks.

"If you can promise me that you won't kill him-" Octavia answers delicately. "- I'll give you your gun back and tell you where he is." 

Bellamy's already swinging his legs off of the bed, lacing his boots carefully. His head is spinning, but he's delirious enough to compartmentalise the pain, focus on the next goal. 

"Where is he?" He repeats the first words he spoke when he woke up, this time softly, a hidden tremor.

Octavia reaches into her coat, placing his pistol carefully into his hands. 

* * *

Murphy's always liked this piece- " _Adoration of the Child,"_ by Francesco Francia. It's only in town for a couple weeks- not enough time to plan a heist, and the security in the city's museums are now much tighter. 

He stands in front of it anyways, admiring the colours and shapes on the lone wood panel hanging on the wide white wall. Murphy's affinity for Renaissance paintings began when his business did- it's a preference now, when he's stealing. 

Why steal something if you weren't going to enjoy it? 

He hears footsteps approaching and steels himself, like he has every time somebody's walked by- even though none of them are _him,_ and as the minutes tick by, Murphy miserably thinks that perhaps Octavia hadn't gotten through to him. 

No luck once again- another pretend-art-connoisseur, turning her nose up at every piece that she hadn't seen in number one bestselling art books. Her heels clacking on the polished wood floor makes Murphy grit his teeth.

It's late, the museum almost-but-not-quite devoid of life except for the lurking security and a handful straggling tourists, walking around and _"oohing"_ and _"ahhing"_ at each of the pieces. The last wisps of sunlight are filtering through the wide skylights, shining weakly onto the painting Murphy was currently appreciating. It's chilly, in the museum, air conditioning on full blast, and Murphy fights a shiver.

"I won't lie to you, Murphy." A low voice rolls next to him, and a figure at his side, shoulders brushing. "I know jack _shit_ about art." 

Now Murphy isn't by himself, looking up at the lone wood panel hanging on the wide white wall, the only two people in the large room. 

Murphy smiles, not looking away from the painting. "Too high-class for a lowlife like you?" 

Bellamy snorts, cocking his head at the piece. "If I'm a lowlife, you're a lowlife." 

Murphy half-heartedly gasps, finally turning to Bellamy. His face shows no sign of anger, even after their gunfight only this morning. It's a kind of push-pull, Murphy muses, looking at Bellamy curiously. 

"Octavia told me that you didn't know she was going to leave everything behind." Bellamy says quietly, thoughtful brown eyes still pointedly looking at the wall. 

Murphy sighs. "That would be correct." 

Bellamy huffs, his lips pursed upwards and blowing his curls up temporarily. 

"I'm going to drop the job." He comments easily. Murphy hears his own heart beating in his ears, blood pumping through his body at lightning speed. 

"Oh?" Murphy makes a non-committal noise. 

Bellamy looks at him, a faint smile playing at his lips. "I'll get Monty to wipe the case from the company database. Nobody else will get the job." 

The silence between them stretches for far too long as Murphy tries to find the right words to say. 

The price tag on Murphy's head is shockingly weighty, and Bellamy was going to _get rid of it._ It’s easily one of the best things that could possibly happen for Murphy. Less danger- a day on the streets where he could _live._

Murphy's mind is blank when he places a hand on the back of Bellamy's neck and leaning in in one swift motion, pressing his lips to Bellamy's gently. It's nothing like the two of them were used to, not at all biting and sharp and aggressive, but it was everything they _needed_. Bellamy placed his hands on Murphy's waist, clutching at his silk shirt like a lifeline. 

It lasts forever and a millisecond at the same time- Murphy's mind is whirling a mile a minute- 

"Work with me." Murphy blurts, ambition dancing in his eyes, leaning his forehead on Bellamy's. The older man's eyes widen imperceptibly, but Murphy shushes him, placing a finger on his lips. 

"Don't answer now. Think about it." Murphy hushes him. "Whatever your higher ups pay you, you'll get more working with me. You can be with Octavia. You can still keep contact with the friends from your company. You can- you can be with _me."_

Bellamy pokes his tongue out to lick Murphy's finger- the latter yelps, pulling his hand away, but Bellamy's grip on his waist tightens, pulling him closer. 

"Okay." He says simply. Murphy's eyebrows raise, shocked. 

"Okay?" 

"Okay." Bellamy affirms. "I'll work with you." 

Murphy scoffs. "That's it? Really? After I got your sister to knock you out, like, this morning? No contract? Come on, Blake-" 

Bellamy's mouth is centimetres away from his- Murphy can feel Bellamy's warm, breathy laugh on his bottom lip, still busted and swollen from when he'd chewed it that morning. 

"I'm not letting you get away from me this time." Bellamy murmurs, while Murphy melts onto the museum floor, before closing the gap once again.

And there they stood, under a lone wood painting on a wide, white wall, night falling on the city and moonlight filtering into the museum, illuminating two matching pieces that had been separated by canvases. 

A diptych, if you will. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is an epilogue- some fun murphamy scenes and a little more closure, so the story isn't over yet! please stay tuned, thank you for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter @505daytime  
> tumblr oliivverwood   
> <3


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